


Correlation

by Legendaerie



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Spoilers, dad issues, not very serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 14:30:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4923190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/Legendaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blood may be thicker than water, but both can drown you if you're not careful.</p><p> </p><p>Or, South Hits Too Close To Home And York Volunteers To Be Carolina's Punching Bag</p>
            </blockquote>





	Correlation

**Author's Note:**

> Bit of a warm-up drabble I wrote on my phone between errands yesterday - trying to get a feel for the Freelancers as characters. Plus, shitty dads are a topic very near (and dear?) to my heart, so.

There is only one thing Carolina has ever truly been afraid of; only one trap she doesn't think she can escape, one path too dark and winding for her to wish to tread. And it has nothing to do with the project, or the Insurgents, or even the goddamn leader board.

The fear of being her father's daughter.

It's not an omnipresent fear, either - it ebbs and flows in waves like the tide, fitting for her sea green armor, but when it comes it's enough to drown her. When it comes, it comes in a surge of memories of locked doors and harsh words, of scissors and dye and all the stupid attempts at adolescent individuality. When it comes, it makes her miss her mother with such a bottomless longing that she understands the Director, and that's the worst part of all.

Carolina usually doesn't bother to step in when the other agents are getting a little rowdy. She tends to be of the mindset that "if you've got energy to get yourself into trouble, we're not working you hard enough" but it's been three days since even the slightest flicker of activity on their radar. Ten days since their last mission. Everyone is getting a little twitchy.  
  
However, South threatening Connie with a butter knife is pushing it a little beyond twitchy. At a separate table from the rest, Carolina pushes aside the remains of her lunch and steps off the bench, just in time for North to enter the room with York.  
  
"All right, break it up," she commands, treading deliberately into South's personal space. Her hands are relaxed and open, body language deliberately subdued, but she doesn't have to do much at all to get her teammate's attention. South deflates, a rebellious snort escaping her in a very literal representation of hot air, and Connie settles back into her seat with cat-like deliberation. "If you want to fight, get into armor and take yourselves to the training grounds. Sparring in the cafeteria is--"

"Against regulations, whatever," South hurls the words at the table top, flicking her bitter eyes at Carolina for only a moment. "You sound like the director."

It was as if someone had opened an airlock. Carolina sucks in a ragged breath through the filter of her helmet, even though she couldn't taste any oxygen in the room. Her first instinct is terror - _does she know? Do any of them know? I want to be the best despite him, not because of him_ \- which is in the middle of shifting to rage when York approaches her.

"Hey, just the lady I was looking for."

Her gaze jerks to him as he approaches, and she can almost see his easy smile under his helmet. The rest of the cafeteria has gone quiet as well, maybe, or perhaps it's just the blood roaring in her ears that's deafening her.

"Apparently there's a bit of an issue with Niner's ship, and I got asked to break the news to her that she's grounded. Mind coming with me? I'd like a witness at least if she tosses me out the window."

She follows him immediately, muttering a "sure" that feels too late to sound natural, but it's several steps before she feels the ground under her feet again, before the tide retreats and she is Agent Carolina again.

By that time, she realizes they're headed to the training grounds. "You said--"

"I already broke the news to her. That's why North was with me," he explains, every movement so infuriatingly calm and fluid even in his armor. "You look ready to beat the shit out of someone, so I figured some pugil sticks practice was in order."

"And why should I spar with you? South seemed like she needed to blow off some steam." She knows why, suspects he knows too, but there is some comfort in subterfuge.

York shrugs as he enters the training room floor. "It's been awhile since you kicked my ass. Call it nostalgia."

He seems content to let the issue slide, so she falls silent - lets him chat it up with FILSS, lets him pick out a stick for her, lets him settle into a careful defensive stance and lets him speak first.

"On the count of three. One--"

Two moves in quick succession - a feint to his head to bring his stick up in a block, and a sweep to his ankles to knock him off balance - then she plants the end of the stick in the ground and uses it to aid the momentum in her kick. York goes flying across the floor, landing starfish-like on his back, and she waits for him to get up.

"Still feeling nostalgic?" she bites. If it had been South, all three moves would have been full out strikes, and she probably would have kicked her teammate in the head instead of the stomach.

York groans, rolls over and gets up with the help of his stick. He leans on it for a second, his breathing audible over the in-helmet radio, and shakes his head.

"I guess I did literally ask for that, so..."

"You did."

If he winces when he stands upright and shakes his shoulders, Carolina can't tell. His voice is still calm, still amused and still oddly comforting.

"Round two, then?"

This time she takes the defensive, waits for his movement and blocks his blows. He's stronger than her, fractionally, but he's also unerringly patient. York is mechanical, methodical, despite his witty nature, and he doesn't press his advantage until he knows it will count - which is when he finally makes his move, she can't counter it in time.

Granted, she hits the floor with a lot less force than he did, but a point is a point. When she rises, she makes sure that only he can hear her.

"Do you really think I'm like the Director?" She asks, voice deceptively neutral. They both know it bothers her, but she doesn't know if he understands why.

York bounces the pugil stick between his hands until she gets herself into a ready position. "I think South was just lashing out against authority," he evades both verbally and physically as she swipes at him again. "She's still in her rebellious years."

"That's not what I asked."

"No," he concedes, talkative even with the exercise of blocking her swings, "I guess it wasn't. Figured it might be what you wanted to hear, though."

"What I want is your opinion," she reminds him, her tone harsh and flat like the blade of a knife. "Do I act like the Director?"

The words are hardly out of her mouth when she realizes how damning she sounds; how easy it would be to heard those words in a deep southern drawl. Her pugil stick wobbles in her unsteady hands. Her guard drops. York doesn't take the opening, and waits for her to make a move.

Carolina is struck with the impulse to throw the stick down and stalk away, but she knows that's childish at best; so instead she waits too, caught in a standoff until York heaves a static rush of a sigh.

"Only the good parts."

And she realizes that this was the trap all along. That any word she says otherwise is just digging her own grave, deeper and deeper. That he knows, somehow, that the leaderboard means more to her than just a soldier seeking excellence.

"What are the good parts?" Carolina asks, frost in her voice and in her blood, striking out with viper-like speed. He barely blocks in time, spins to counter her and stumbles when she trips him.

"Determination, for one. You're both very tenacious," he elaborates, a little out of breath between his words but still as frustratingly unflappable as ever.

"Is that a good thing?"

"Usually, yeah. Apathy is easy. It's what I do." Another lie, maybe - she's not blind to the way he lights up when she's around, the way his loyalty seems more tied to her than the project most of the time. "Things get done that way."

Her mind flicks back to a mission not so long ago with civilian casualties nearing the triple digits. "Not always the right things, though."

"Yeah, that's fair. But you care about what's right and wrong. That's important." Another blocked swing, another clatter of sticks, and she imagines she can see his face through his visor as they push against each other.

But there's an opening she won't take, a blow she won't deal - _do you think the director cares?_ weighs heavy but unspoken on her tongue. It hits too close to the dangerous topics, the ones that could have most lasting consequences than teasing remarks and bruised shins.

It only takes one strike to down him this time, and she offers him a hand up when she hears his muttered curse. York takes it, gladly, but once he's on his feet he won't let go.

"Feeling better?" he asks, his gloved fingers warm around hers; intimate, almost, even through the layers separating their skin.

"A little." She switches her tone to teasing to let him know she's let it go. "I think there's still a little bit of shit left in you, though. Want to go another round?"

York rolls his shoulder and sighs, but she can see his pleasure in the movement, can picture his barely hidden smile. "Sure. Why not?"

 

 


End file.
